


From here you can almost see the sea

by whimsicule



Category: Olympics RPF, Swimming RPF
Genre: M/M, Olympic Mini Big Bang, post-retirement, random roadtrips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 01:08:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicule/pseuds/whimsicule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He started to swim and there's no before and in between and it doesn't look like the after is going to be very easy to figure out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From here you can almost see the sea

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first (and probably last) time writing these two. And I did struggle, but I hope the end result is something worth reading. Please don't be shy with the feedback. Title and quote in the beginning taking from a David Gray song. Beta'd by the perfectly perfect brojan.

  
_I dream of high clouds  
Flushed with the light of daybreak  
I'm gonna dive in  
To water so cold it makes your bones ache_

David Gray

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
Michael’s not sure how he had imagined retirement to be. Whatever the case, it sure as hell turns out differently.  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
Truth be told, Michael hasn’t really given it much thought. He just thinks it’s a good idea, feels like it’s time and he’s just tired. Not of swimming, never of swimming, but of everything else. He hasn’t had a holiday in ages. So after London 2012, after winning more medals, after becoming the greatest Olympian of all time (damn him if that doesn’t have an awesome ring to it) – Michael hangs up his goggles. He hangs up his goggles and his swimming trunks and his cap and everything that ties him to competitive swimming.  
  
Then he goes off the radar.  
  
It probably takes five weeks, three days and a handful of hours before Michael realises one important aspect that’s slipped his mind: retirement is not like a holiday. It’s a series of holidays, multiplied with too much time and space to equal one thing, and one thing only: infinite boredom.  
  
He sells his condo in Baltimore and buys a house further out. Nothing big or flashy, just something to distract himself with. He picks out colours and new furniture with his sisters (or rather, sits and listens while they decide on colours and new furniture), picks up a few books on gardening and lets his mother teach him how to cook. She doesn’t succeed, but that’s something Michael doesn’t mention to anyone; he tried, give him some credit.  
  
There’s also an inside pool. Michael locks the door to it after he has moved in and hides the key. He can’t really say why.  
  
Every couple of days, he meets Bob for dinner, or Bob comes to his mom’s house for dinner and Michael thinks his coach – former coach – makes an effort not to talk too much about the pool or swimming in general. Because Bob knows him. Michael doesn’t come visit him at the pool simply because that’d be one step away from getting into the pool which would be one step away from swimming lanes and practising his butterfly and that would be one step away from – well, you get the picture.  
  
See, the problem is that Michael’s never really been anything but a professional swimmer. First he was a lanky kid with ADHD and then he started to swim and there’s no before and in between and it doesn’t look like the after is going to be very easy to figure out unless he stays dry for a while. It’s hard, it’s like he’s missing a limb or living in the desert. So Michael sits back, listens to Bob and his mom talk and folds his paper napkin into an origami crane.  
  
  
  
  
“Maybe you should take another trip?” his mom suggests when he’s over for dinner. She’s made some mac and cheese and although it’s most definitely perfectly seasoned, Michael can’t actually taste a lot. He doesn’t have much of an appetite. Outside the kitchen window, out in the garden, the trees are starting to change colour. It feels a lot like fall after Beijing, only without Rome and Shanghai and London following.  
  
Yes, he could probably travel again. Do things, see places; it’s what he told everyone who’d asked about life after swimming. But it would just be him and his thoughts somewhere else, because his friends, everyone he knows – their lives are just starting. It’s not standard procedure to retire at 28.  
  
“I guess I could,” he says.  
  
“You guess,” his mom responds, raising one of her eyebrows in _that_ way. “That doesn’t sound very enthusiastic.”  
  
Michael just manages to refrain from snapping at her (it’s his _mother_ for Christ’s sake and he’s developed a painfully short temper). Instead he continues to stab his macaroni, glances out the window and waits for an epiphany. The cheese is growing cold and chewy and when Michael carries his plate over to the sink, it slips from his grasp and shatters on the kitchen tiles.  
  
Later at night, Michael lies awake in his empty house, Herman breathing heavily somewhere from his place on the carpet, and wonders if his life is going to shatter too. Because it sure as hell is slipping.  
  
  
  
  
There is his mother. Then his sisters, and Bob and Herman. A handful of friends. A small, intimate and private circle. That circle had always been somehow involved with but also outweighed by swimming. Now that swimming doesn’t fill Michael’s days, he’s somehow overwhelmed by the amount of time that fits into each day and he doesn’t know what to do with all of it. He doesn’t have an inexhaustible amount of hobbies to fall back on or a countless number of people to provide constant entertainment, it’s not like he’s –  
  
Oh. Well, that might be an idea.  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
Even in October, the air in Florida is still humid when Michael steps out of the airport at the crack of dawn. There’s a slight breeze going that nobody from Maryland would actually call a breeze (it’s just warm air shifting from one spot to the next, he thinks) and the sun is dipping everything into such a bright orange hue that Michael has to squint and adjust before taking the next couple of steps out onto the parking lot.  
  
There’s only one car waiting on the curb – Michael had specifically chosen to arrive outside the busiest hours. It’s either a dark grey or black Wrangler Jeep and he can’t tell if it’s new, because it’s practically covered in dust and dried mud. Not the kind of mud you’d get anywhere in Baltimore; the kind of mud you’d only pick up in a Floridian swamp. He figures he doesn’t really want to know how it got smeared all over the Jeep – even the bloody roof.  
  
Michael adjusts the strap of his duffel bag, which is already leaving a sweaty trail on his shirt, and raises his arm for a wave.  
  
“’Sup?”  
  
Ryan just quirks up one corner of his mouth and doesn’t move from where he’s leaning against the driver’s door of the almost unrecognizable Jeep. He’s in board shorts and a crinkled t-shirt, aviators hiding his eyes, and looks tanner than he had in London, presumably because now he’s had the time to do everything besides swimming. Ryan’s an expert in finding things to do besides swimming – which is why Michael’s here.  
  
“No need to wave, man,” he says, voice still croaky. Michael thinks he’s being dramatic. It’s not that early. “You might misdirect the planes with those gorilla arms of yours.”  
  
Before Michael has time to be offended, Ryan has grabbed his bag and thrown it onto the backseat through the open window. “You coming or what?” With that, he gets into his Jeep and starts the engine.  
  
  
  
  
“Where are we going?”  
  
It takes a couple of minutes before Michael notices a second bag lying next to his on the backseat of the Jeep. It’s torn and stitched up again, bulky with the sleeve of a hoody gushing out the top, apparently packed in a hurry, but Michael knows Ryan well enough to understand that even if Ryan had had a week to pack and prepare, he would’ve left it until the last second anyway.  
  
But that’s kind of a point. Michael knows Ryan. They’ve always gotten along, they’ve probably been friends since Athens. But Michael isn’t kidding himself, he is aware that it’s only that way because it is virtually impossible not to be friends with Ryan. Ryan likes everyone and he’s just so easy to get along with too. Where other people nag and complain, Ryan shrugs and smiles; not because he doesn’t care, but because he doesn’t want to waste his time.  
  
They have roomed together a couple of times, done some stuff for Speedo; interviews, meets, that sort of stuff. Yes they text, but probably not nearly as much as the media makes it out to be. They’re both busy people. (Well, Michael isn’t busy anymore, but he used to be, and he doesn’t know what Ryan’s doing at the moment, which is kind of proving the point he is about to make.)  
  
If they’re friends – and Michael’s not a hundred per cent sure about that – then they’re probably not very close. Being colleagues and competitors and roommates; it’s a superficial type of friendship, not in a negative way, but superficial nonetheless.  
  
Which is why Michael doesn’t actually know what he’s doing here. And why Ryan had said yes when he’d called.  
  
“Don’t know,” Ryan answers and Michael’s so deep in his rambling thoughts that he almost flinches at the sound of his still croaky voice. Maybe he has a cold.  
  
He blinks. “You don’t know?”  
  
“Nah,” Ryan shrugs, keeps his eyes on the light-flooded road. He’s got one hand on the steering wheel; the other is distractedly tugging on strands of hair that are still short, but now slightly curling towards the tips. There are about a million microscopic freckles covering his arms and face. “What, you’ve never done that?”  
  
Michael shakes his head, but then he remembers that Ryan is watching the road – which is a good thing – and adds a “no”. He usually gets into his car with the intention of going _somewhere_. If he’s being particularly nit-picky, Michael has to admit that he doesn’t do anything if it isn’t following a greater purpose. But now that he’s lacking purpose –  
  
“Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna kill you and throw your body to the ‘gators.”  
  
 _Well, isn’t that a relief_ , Michael thinks, rolls his eyes and watches flat landscape fly past the window. Ryan is probably going too fast. He sees a couple of road signs, indicating directions for Jacksonville and Daytona Beach, Tampa and Miami.  
  
“Four or ninety-five?”  
  
“What?” Michael turns his head and Ryan’s facing him now.  
  
“Dude, pick a number. Four or ninety-five?”  
  
“Four?” Michael answers before he realises that Ryan is referring to the Highways. He racks his brain and wonders where Highway number four is going to lead them, but then Ryan takes the next exit, another sign. _Oh_ , Michael thinks. Tampa, West Coast.  
  
Ryan fumbles with the radio. There’s the entirety of Florida to get across.  
  
Michael shrugs. He’s got time.  
  
  
  
  
They head south after Orlando and Ryan is unusually quiet. He mumbles something about coffee so they stop at a gas station; fill up the Jeep and down some liquid vaguely resembling coffee. After that, things go back to normal. Ryan starts to fill Michael in on everything he’s been doing; L.A., Vegas, New York, and some weird trip to Mexico with his brothers that Michael’s sure Ryan’s parents know nothing about (at least he hopes so). He lets his head fall back against his seat, tries to relax, but can’t shake off that underlying anxiety that has been stuck to his body since London.  
  
  
  
  
After about five hours of driving (Michael thinks he’s just seen a sign saying Lake Placid), he faces Ryan. “What if we don’t find a hotel?”  
  
“I’ve got a tent.”  
  
“You’ve got a tent?”  
  
“Yup.”  
  
“Okay,” Michael says. A _tent_.  
  
  
  
  
Michael insists on stopping at the next gas station to pick up a map – he can’t believe Ryan doesn’t actually have one (wait, no, he _can_ believe that) – so that even if they don’t know where they’re going, he can at least know where they are. Yes, Michael is kind of trying to make use of his time, to find some cheesy second meaning to his life that isn’t swimming, but that doesn’t mean he wants to get lost in the swamps of Florida and die.  
  
They end up in Naples and find a small, rather shabby looking motel just on the edge of town. The old lady behind the counter in the reception bungalow is wearing glasses with lenses as thick as bricks and generally reminds Michael of one of the _Golden Girls_. She doesn’t recognise them, which is a good thing, and hands them one key with some weird knitted… _thing_ dangling at the end of it.  
  
The room is small, smells muggy and is creepily reminiscent of these road trip movies where everyone ends up in literal pieces. Knitted overthrows and a stained carpet, curtains heavy with dust.  
  
“It’s got character, doesn’t it?” Ryan grins with raised eyebrows and Michael can’t help but laugh.  
  
He watches as Ryan lets his body fall onto his bed and the frame produces an eardrum-shattering noise that makes Michael’s skin crawl. Thinking about stained and dirty sheets also makes his skin crawl, but he flops down on the second bed nonetheless and turns his head to the side.  
  
Ryan is lying on his back, crinkled shirt riding up, arms outstretched and eyes blissfully closed. He looks… thinner since the last time Michael saw him, which was in London, he registers with surprise; less bulky too. Maybe he has changed his training, because he’s definitely back in the pool by now. Michael wants to ask, but he doesn’t. Instead, he watches Ryan shift and mumble and after a short while, he drifts off too.  
  
  
  
  
Dinner is a massive bowl of fries with greasy prawns, smothered in a sauce that makes his mouth burn. Not many people are about, there are only a few hushed whispers, but nobody approaches them. Ryan is wearing sunglasses, because the retreating sunlight is being reflected off the rear window of a truck parked nearby. Michael himself is wearing a baseball cap that throws a shadow across his face. They don’t talk much throughout, not until the bowl is empty and Ryan is pushing a lonely prawn around on his plate.  
  
“So,” he says eventually, drawn out and quiet. “You wanna talk about it?”  
  
Michael draws his eyebrows together. “Talk about what?”  
  
“Why you’re here,” Ryan replies. “You know, I know I’ve done the talking today, and I don’t mind doing it and well, we can continue to just hang out and all, but – don’t get me wrong, you look like Coach Bob just told you that you didn’t make the relay team. And that can’t be it, because you quit, right?”  
  
“Right,” Michael says. It sounds hollow and he feels almost numb as it rolls off his tongue and – yeah. He’s quit. And it’s still weird.  
  
“So,” Ryan repeats and flips the prawn off his plate and onto the sidewalk, where seagulls immediately tear it to shreds. Michael thinks it’s probably a bad sign that he envies it. “What’s up?”  
  
Michael continues to stare at the seagulls fighting, flapping wings and feathers, then lets his gaze wander farther, across the promenade and stretch of sand and he realises that this is the closest he’s been to water in months.  
  
“I don’t know,” he answers. And it makes him a little sad that it’s actually the truth.  
  
  
  
  
A smelly pillow hits him square in the face and pulls him straight out of a deep slumber. As unpleasant as it is to wake up like that, it’s a thousand times better than dreaming that same bloody shit he’s been dreaming about for _months_. Michael blinks, rubs his eyes; his neck cracks when he moves his head to the side.  
  
“Whu?”  
  
He sees Ryan standing across the room, tugging a sweatshirt over his head. “You coming?”  
  
“Coming where?” Michael asks with a raspy voice without moving an ounce of muscle.  
  
“Dude, the beach is like, five metres away. I’m going for a swim. Need to stay in shape.” He fumbles with his shorts, which are riding so low on his hips that Michael can tell he’s wearing some Speedos underneath.  
  
“I’m retired,” he says.  
  
“So? What, you don’t swim anymore?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
There’s a beat that passes between them when it is so quiet that Michael can hear a clock ticking. It sounds like an old grandfather clock and seriously, where the hell have they managed to get themselves, what kind of place has grandfather clocks? Ryan stares back at him with a blank expression. It’s almost unsettling, like he doesn’t have a clue what to say or even think and Ryan – Ryan always knows what to say. Ryan would shrug, make fun of him and laugh.  
  
Instead, he puts his hands into the pockets of his shorts and nods. “Okay.” And for a moment, Michael finds himself unable to remember how to breathe. But then, “Anyway, you’re getting breakfast.” With that, he’s out of the room. The door slams shut.  
  
  
  
  
There’s something different about him, Michael thinks as they’re sitting on tiny plastic chairs in front of their motel room, sunlight flooding over their feet as they dig into cream cheese bagels and muffins. (“Dibs on blueberry,” Ryan had said and it had made him smile.) Something he can’t quite put his finger on, because it’s just –  
  
Well. See, Michael has always believed Ryan to be a pretty transparent guy, in every good meaning of the word. Honest, straightforward. Just easy and uncomplicated. He has always thought that Ryan wears his heart on his sleeve, that one can tell when he is happy or angry or disappointed.  
  
Maybe Michael is just seeing things though. He only has his mind to occupy himself with and he could just be imagining things, because although they’ve spent a lot of time together, he doesn’t know what Ryan is thinking. Michael had just always assumed.  
  
Perhaps he’d assumed wrong, because Michael can’t help but find that the way Ryan is smiling around his cup of mocha, cursing lightly when he burns his tongue, face still flushed from his swim… it just seems –  
  
“You wanna head south?” There’s a bit of cream cheese on his bottom lip, and Michael almost reaches over to wipe it off. He blinks.  
  
“South? Yeah man, that’s – I mean, sounds good, why not?”  
  
“Cool,” Ryan smiles, takes another sip, curses again and leans back, rubbing his belly. “We could camp out in the Everglades, eh? Wrestle ‘gators and shit.”  
  
Michael shrugs. He knows when to take Ryan serious. “Sure, if you can swim with one leg.”  
  
“I can swim with no legs at all,” Ryan insists. “I’d still swim if I had all my limps chewed off by a barracuda.”  
  
Michael doesn’t respond to that. And he’s glad that Ryan doesn’t expect him to.  
  
  
  
  
  
Thick raindrops hit the front screen of the car in a steady rhythm. Michael opens his bleary eyes. He must’ve fallen asleep a while ago, because the sky outside is dark with a solid mass of clouds and the trees are being blown at an angle. He shuffles and adjusts in his seat, notices that the car isn’t moving, but standing on the side of the road.  
Ryan is staring straight ahead, where the gulf’s water is being tossed against the maybe-too-close shore. He’s so deep in thought, or so zoned out, that he flinches when Michael touches his shoulder. Ryan takes a deep breath and blinks a couple of times.  
  
“You okay?” Michael asks hesitantly.  
  
“Sure. I just – I wanted to wait until the weather got better and I… must’ve just.” He makes a dismissive wave with his hand and starts the engine. “Well, anyway, lets get going, don’t think it’s gonna change anytime soon.”  
  
His skin is almost icy underneath Michael’s fingers.  
  
  
  
  
When they’re stopping for gas, Michael calls his mother. He gives her a quick update on where they are, what the weather’s like and how long he thinks he’s going to be gone for (not sure). Although it makes him feel bad, he wants to end the call quickly. Ryan won’t be in there paying forever. His mother doesn’t let him.  
  
 _“How are you really doing, Mike?”_ she asks him.  
  
Michael sighs. “It’s okay, mom, really. I – I’m better than I was before. This is good; it’s distracting.”  
  
 _“Honey, I don’t mean to ruin your fun. I’m happy you’re enjoying yourself, but distraction isn’t going to solve anything. You know I’ve always told you: You shouldn’t run away from your problems, you should face them head on.”_  
  
“What if I don’t know what the problem is?” he snaps back, feels guilty immediately and utters a quick, quiet apology. “Sorry. I’m just… I’ll try and keep it in mind, alright?”  
  
 _“Alright. By the way, how is Ryan doing? I hope you’re not keeping him from anything important.”_  
  
Michael doesn’t really know – either. It’s just, “Not sure. I think he’s fine.”  
  
 _“You think?”_ His mother sounds surprised.  
  
Michael catches a drop of rain on his palm and watches as it trickles down to his wrist. “He seems different. Can’t really say why.”  
  
 _“Of course he’s different,”_ she tells him and Michael blinks in surprise. _“When was the last time you two spent time together? Outside the pool? People grow, dear. And Ryan’s done a lot of growing lately.”_  
  
Then it’s she who says her goodbyes, says that she’s having lunch with his sister and to say hello to Ryan from her. Michael just nods along and absentmindedly wonders if he’s changed at all in the past ten years; if he’s grown the way Ryan apparently has.  
  
  
  
  
The weather is staying gloomy and if Michael would take a guess, it’s like a hurricane is on the verge of hitting the shore, but what would he know? He’s from Maryland and Ryan has lived in Florida for most of his life, so Michael just assumes that he knows what he’s doing. Rain is running down the front screen like a waterfall, there’s Hip Hop blasting from the stereo and it’s so dark that Michael checks the time twice, because he can’t believe it’s only afternoon.  
  
“Maybe we should – you know. Crash at the next place we find?”  
  
Maybe Ryan knows what he’s doing, but Michael is still getting kind of nervous. Disappearing from the face of the earth, figuratively and literally – there’s a big difference.  
  
“Scared of a little rain?” Ryan grins and Michael fails to see how little is part of the equation, but yeah, fine, so he’s feeling a little anxious, Ryan will thank him later when they’re warm and dry and most of all alive.  
  
And he does follow the signs leading to come campsite a little bit over an hour later. Thankfully, they don’t need to get out the tent, which would get blown or flooded away in a second, but find an array of huts and bungalows a safe distance from the foaming shore. This time it’s not an old lady who greets them in the reception bungalow, but a teenaged boy with a toothy grin and dark freckles.  
  
Michael can pinpoint the moment it dawns on him who has just entered the room. The boy’s eyes go wide and he drops his comic into his lap. Ryan is all casual walk and relaxed smile before he puts a hundred dollar bill onto the counter. The boy’s eyes – if possible – go even wider.  
  
“We need a room,” Ryan says.  
  
“S-sure,” the boy replies. “Names?”  
  
It’s painfully obvious that he knows exactly what names to write down. But there’s the dollar bill teasing him from the counter, so he stays quiet and waits for Ryan to answer. Ryan’s eyes flick – transparently as ever – to the comic in the boy’s lap.  
  
“Batman and Robin,” he says and Michael groans inwardly. Of course, he couldn’t have gone for Bruce and Alfred. Or even Bruce and Robin. There are a million options that don’t involve a superhero.  
  
But the boy grins like someone’s just bought him Disneyland. “Awesome,” then he hands Ryan a key, gaze flickering between them and when they turn their backs on him to head out again, he calls, “We also have a pool.”  
  
Michael thinks it could’ve gone considerably worse.  
  
  
  
  
Their bungalow is surprisingly nice; big and clean, cosy, and the radiators are a plus, because Michael’s cold and wet and he doesn’t want to catch pneumonia.  
  
“You wanna stay here for a couple of days?” Ryan asks after calling dibs on the bunk beds.  
  
Michael shrugs. “Sure.”  
  
He doesn’t have anywhere to be. This place is as good as any.  
  
  
  
  
Later that evening, they’re stretched out on the couch, eyes on the flickering TV screen. The cable in this place is beyond awful, of course, and the thunderstorm outside doesn’t positively contribute to that either. Michael has no idea what they’re watching, he’s stopped paying attention a while ago, settling for watching Ryan instead and yeah, he’s lost weight, a lot actually and Michael doesn’t know if that should be worrying. He’s not Ryan’s coach, or in fact Ryan’s anything (he isn’t sure if he wants to be Ryan’s something, or where that though even came from) and it’s possible that he’s switched training methods, that it makes sense that his body is now scrawnier and rather sinewy than muscly.  
  
His cheekbones are more prominent too and he’s more the American Ralph Lauren poster boy than ever. Something about that thought bothers Michael. And Ryan’s just generally is being too quiet.  
  
“Am I keeping you from something?” Michael asks eventually and Ryan turns his head to face him. “Like, don’t you need to be preparing for Worlds?”  
  
Ryan just looks at him for a while before shrugging. “Nah man, don’t worry, ‘s fine. I needed a break anyway.”  
  
A break from what, Michael wonders, but he doesn’t ask aloud.  
  
  
  
  
The morning is cold and grey. There’s a slight yellowish tint on the horizon that looks like sulphur and when Michael wakes up, he feels like he has a hangover despite not having had a single drink in weeks. He taps out of the bedroom and into the living area – small kitchen counter, table, sofa, armchair – to find the bungalow entirely deserted, but there’s a used mug on the table, and Ryan’s hoodie hanging over a chair, so Ryan hasn’t bailed on him; not that he has any reason to, Michael thinks.  
  
Then he remembers that nerdy kid (and okay, maybe Michael should tread carefully around that terrain, if it hadn’t been for swimming, he’d become a nerd too) mentioning a pool and despite the freezing temperatures – considering they’re in Florida – he gets the feeling that this is exactly where Ryan had headed at… seven in the morning. Okay, earlier than Michael had though it would be.  
  
He grabs shoes and a jumper and heads out. It might not have been a hurricane, but it sure looks like one has blown across the campsite. Soggy leaves are covering the paths and every inch of grass; there are tree branches and paper napkins and a couple of plastic chairs fallen over. The air is fresh and sharp and it smells treacherously similar to spring despite winter fast approaching.  
  
Michael follows the signs to the pool and sure, there he is, freestyling his way through foliage. The pool’s only 25 metres long, but Ryan’s good at short lanes and he practices his turns and Michael is so focused on his movements that he flinches when he sees someone out of the corner of his eyes. It’s the kid from the reception; Michael guesses he might be around fourteen, possibly younger, possibly older. He’s wearing board shorts and a _Ramones_ t-shirt and his messy blonde curls are hastily stuffed into a woollen beanie. His ears are way too big for his head and Michael realises with a weird feeling in his chest that he could easily introduce him to anyone as his younger brother.  
  
The boy is holding a long net in his hands, attempting to fish the leaves out of the pool and he looks at him with a kind of awe that makes Michael feel guilty for not being very special out of water.  
  
“I don’t know how he isn’t freezing in that water,” he tells Michael. “I mean, that shit’s cold. And disgusting, don’t know what’s floating in there. But I guess you guys just have to, right? When you see water. Like, dive right in and all.”  
  
“I guess,” Michael says, because it used to be like that, like some rule out of Animal Kingdom, only for swimmers; you find water, you find them. But now all he feels is an uncomfortable level of anxiety, not that pleasant rush he got pre-meet, rather something resembling dread – like he’s afraid of the outcome.  
  
“So,” the boy – does he have a name? Should Michael just give him one? – drawls, leaning in the net. “How do Batman and Robin end up in Chokoloskee Bay, Florida?”  
  
Michael raises his brows at him. “You don’t need call us that, really –”  
  
“Hey, Batman paid good money, so I’ll be sticking to that.”  
  
He is about to say something else when a though occurs to him. “Why is he Batman and I’m Robin?”  
  
The boy shrugs. “I don’t know. Which one of you got the brains? Or maybe you should be, like, Spiderman. But maybe we should stick to DC. Like, Superman? Or wait, you’ll be Aquaman, that’s practically true, right?”  
  
Michael feels his throat tighten, so he keeps looking at Ryan turning in the water, creating waves and ripples and even from where he’s standing, his underwater technique looks breathtakingly perfect. That’s something Michael could never get down, no matter how hard he tried. Ryan had always been better at turns and Michael had had to improve in other areas to make up for it.  
  
“Why aren’t you swimming?”  
  
Michael digs his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “I’m retired.”  
  
“Hm,” the boy hums. “Why did you, anyway? It’s gonna be boring if you two don’t fight for top stop, you know. You’re like Federer and Nadal or – yeah, maybe you really are Batman and Robin.”  
  
Michael shrugs as he watches Ryan slide through the water, backstroke as flawless as always and asks himself if he’s just been outsmarted by a teenager.  
  
  
  
  
He sits by the edge of the pool after the kid’s disappeared, not putting his feet into the water because it’s cold and, apparently, Michael is paranoid like that. It should be embarrassing, but Michael’s known Ryan long enough to know that he’ll take a dangling foot as an invitation to pull Michael in, and Michael’s not keen on that. So he sits and watches Ryan who swims longer than he should in a pool that is far too cold for comfort, probably longer than Coach Gregg would’ve let him swim in any pool.  
  
When Ryan surfaces, he spots Michael almost straight away and heads over. Even from the distance Michael can tell that his lips have a blue tinge. Ryan climbs out of the pool and taps over to his towel, lying on the tiles next to Michael, and he can’t resist spraying a bit of water into Michael’s direction.  
  
“Come to join me?”  
  
Just in his speedos, it’s pretty obvious that he’s lost a lot of his bulk. But what does Michael know, what does he care as well, maybe Ryan’s times are improving, maybe it’s just a change in training.  
  
“I’m retired,” he says, which is evolving into his answer to everything, it seems.  
  
Ryan dries himself off, drapes the towel around his shoulders, and sits down next to him. Michael wants to tell him that it’s not a good idea to do that, that Ryan needs a hot bath or shower, that he’ll catch a cold like that – but Ryan’s presence is… well, it’s just right, because they’re never apart for this long, there’ve always been swim meets and FINA championships and Speedo events and Michael’s already lost all of those, losing Ryan’s presence in his life on top of that? He doesn’t fancy it.  
  
“And retired means you’ll never touch water again, or what?” Ryan asks, with more insistence in his voice than before. Michael knows he won’t be able to evade the entire topic this time.  
  
“I just – I just don’t feel like swimming, alright?”  
  
“No,” Ryan replies. “It’s not alright. Jeez, Mike, a world where you’re not part of the Olympics is tough enough to stomach, but a world where you don’t swim at all? Something’s clearly wrong. What’re you so afraid of?”  
  
Michael stares into the deep end of the pool where leaves are probably clogging up all the drains. “I’m not afraid,” he says, because he’s not. That’s bullshit. Major fucking bullshit.  
  
Ryan nudges him with his elbow; Michael still doesn’t look at him.  
  
“Man, I know I’m not the brightest fish in the pond, but even I can see that you’re fucking terrified of getting wet.”  
  
“I’m not _terrified_ ,” Michael snaps back.  
  
“You are! You should see your face, Mike, it’s – scary, okay? Why won’t you just get in the pool with me, what’s the big fucking deal?”  
  
“Because I’ll question everything, okay?” Michael scrambles up to his feet, stares down at Ryan who’s looking at him with eyes wide and as blue as the pools in Athens and Beijing and London and – “I’m retired, I’ve quit, and if I get in the pool again, I’ll start again.”  
  
Ryan keeps looking, calm as the water that had been gushing and whirling just until a few hours ago. Shit, he has really done some growing up. “And what would be so bad about that? Why would it be so bad to change your mind? You’re Michael Phelps; people expect you to swim until you drown from exhaustion.”  
  
“Because,” Michael says, and hesitates. That’s something he hasn’t really though about. But maybe that’s a lie. He has thought about it, but it’s so stupid, it’s so below his own self-esteem and his honour and everything and perhaps he should never admit it to anyone. But this is Ryan, and Ryan would never judge him and then his mother’s words are ringing in his ears. He kind of has to face the facts. “Because I won’t win anymore. Like, I know it sounds stupid, but I should’ve quit after Beijing, quite while I was on top, because nothing’s ever gonna be as good as that.”  
  
Ryan’s expression is blank when he gets up, droplets of water still running down his chest, lines on his face from where the goggles have pressed into his skin. “So that’s it? You’re not going to be the best, so there’s no point in swimming at all. If it’s not the gold, it’s not worth it.”  
  
“That’s not –” Michael starts, but Ryan cuts him off.  
  
“No, it’s exactly what you’re saying. And – okay, that’s fine, if that’s your reason. I just… damn, I thought it was something serious. I though you had a fucking trauma or something,” and then he gives Michael a crooked smile and for some reason, it makes Michael angry.  
  
“You don’t have to understand it, you don’t know what it was like after Beijing.”  
  
“Right, because I don’t know what it’s like to lose?” Ryan huffs. “Come on, Mike, I’ve raced you my entire professional career and I was always second best to you or someone else. But it didn’t matter, because it was fun, because I enjoyed it, because that’s the point. It’s not the gold; it’s the competition. Fine, I didn’t have the pressure after Beijing, I didn’t win eight fucking medals, so maybe I don’t know.”  
He glances at the sky, to the side, like he’s struggling with himself and Michael feels struck, because he’s never seen Ryan like this, not relaxed and not smiling.  
“But I pushed myself, and I didn’t give up, and I beat you and then London came and I was still not good enough. I’m sure you have no idea how that feels. But I’m gonna keep going anyway, because I love doing this.” He takes a deep breath and Michael subconsciously braces himself. “I love you, man, but sometimes you’re a selfish prick and you go through life with fucking blinders. Get over yourself, Mike. Other people might not have won eighteen gold medals, but we’ve still got a shitload to carry.”  
  
Then he walks off. Michael feels like an asshole.  
  
  
  
  
Michael wins six gold medals in Athens. He wins eight in Beijing and four in London. Twenty-six times gold at World Championships. A couple of silvers, a few bronzes, so few that they’re hardly worth mentioning. Michael hasn’t lost a lot of times and mostly, he’d lost out to Ryan. And somehow, that had been okay. Losing to Ryan had never felt too bad. Sure, he’s ambitious enough to always be a bit pissed off for losing, but every time Ryan had won, he’d deserved it and Michael knew. It’s the losing to other people that had made it hard, not that Michael wants to say that they didn’t deserve it just as much, but it had never felt as right, because –  
  
Well, Michael doesn’t know why.  
  
  
  
  
He finds Ryan back at their bungalow, still in Speedos but wearing a hoodie, sitting on the couch and eating cereal out of the box.  
  
“Ryan,” Michael says and his voice is weirdly throaty. “You’re right. I’m a selfish prick. And I’m sorry.”  
  
Ryan doesn’t look up. His mouth is full when he answers and he spits Cheerios all over the floor. “You know what they say,” he chews. “Recognising one’s shortcomings is the first step towards self-improvement.” He pauses, swallows, and shrugs. “Don’t sweat it, man. Just get your head out of your ass.”  
  
“I’ll try.”  
  
Then Ryan holds out the Cheerios and Michael judges it as some kind of peace offering, so he flops down next to Ryan and digs in.  
  
  
  
  
The weather stays pre-apocalyptic for the next three days and Michael’s glad that he’d insisted on buying some supplies when they’d stopped for gas, because two full-grown swimmers, one active and one retired, can work up quite the appetite when cooped up in a creaky bungalow. Ryan swims for almost two hours in the mornings (with intervals of course) and Michael sits by the edge of the pool and watches him, regardless of cold and/or rain. They eat breakfast together, play cards, watch awful TV or go for a run around the campsite. According to Ramon (Michael’s just called the kid that, he still doesn’t know his real name), there are a few other guests in residence, but they never see them around.  
  
It’s nice. It’s a comfortable routine. Perhaps it is far too easy to develop a routine between them. But Michael tries not to ponder on that. He feels calm and collected for the first time in weeks, perhaps months and it’s a relief not to be carrying around unreasonable amounts of anxiety. He guesses that it was good to let it all out and to have Ryan shout back at him, give him some perspective. There’s still a lot to work out, but – well, he’s not going to worry about it right now.  
  
In the evenings, Ryan falls asleep against his shoulder and drools onto his shirt. Michael would mind if it were anyone but him. When Ryan’s breathing evenly, Michael tangles his fingers in Ryan’s hair. It’s longer than it’d been in London, but still short, softly curling at the tips and slightly bleached by the Floridian sun, and Michael runs his fingers through it until he falls asleep, sandwiched between Ryan and the armrest of the couch.  
  
On the fourth day, Ryan wakes him up at the crack of dawn.  
  
“You’re joining me today,” he tells Michael, smiling way too bright for this time of the day. “No excuses.”  
  
Michael gets up, but only reluctantly. “I’m not getting into that pool.”  
  
“We’re going to the beach, dumbass,” Ryan says and slaps a hand against Michael’s bare chest. “Now get your retired ass up or I’ll drag you out by your hermit-hair.”  
  
Ryan flings a pair of swimming trunks at him and leaves the room, but Michael has no doubt that he’ll come back if he takes too long. So he rubs sleep out of his eyes and begrudgingly pulls on the shorts, grabs a zip-up hoodie and leaves the bedroom. Ryan is already waiting by the door and once he’s opened it, Michael can see the strip of orange on the horizon, paired with pink and yellow. The wind is soft and slightly cool, not nearly as cold as the previous days. It’s looking like this might actually turn out to be a rather nice day. But Michael doesn’t want to jinx it, so he follows Ryan along the already familiar pathways towards the beach.  
  
As soon as Michael’s feet hit the sand and he sees the water and he hears the roaring of the waves, he doesn’t want to do it. He doesn’t know why or how or what’s gotten into him exactly, but he doesn’t want to. He’s not afraid, not in the actual sense of the word but – he just loves it too much. Michael loves it so much that he needs it and he doesn’t want to need it anymore, not like this.  
  
Ryan is standing a few metres ahead of him, already tossing away his shoes and shirt. Behind him, waves are crashing relentlessly against the shore. Michael’s fingertips feel numb. His throat is dry and his chest feels tight. Then there’s a tug on his wrist. Ryan’s eyes, Athens, Beijing and London and the Gulf’s water, smelling salty.  
  
“What if I want to, again?”  
  
Ryan smiles, pulls him along. “Then I’ll race you, again.”  
  
Michael lets him.  
  
  
  
  
It’s freezing cold. It gets into his eyes and his nose and ears and gushes around him with unmatched force. His limbs feel heavy for just a second, then he starts to move against the current, instinctively, arms curling open and forward and backward, stretching unused muscles until there’s that familiar ache in his shoulders. His feet flex and he dives under and although Michael knows that he’s holding his air, for the first time in months, it feels like he can properly breathe.  
  
  
  
  
When Michael resurfaces, shallow waves slapping the side of his face, Ryan is not far away, grinning widely with dimples carving into his tanned face. He spits water into Michael’s direction and starts laughing.  
  
“Man, you need a haircut. You look like an idiot.”  
  
Michael wipes the strands of hair off his forehead and he can’t help it, he has to laugh too, although there’s not much funny about it, but Ryan looks so much like the Ryan he knows again and Michael feels so relieved and –  
  
When water rolls over him unexpectedly, he still has Ryan’s laughter in his ears.  
  
  
  
  
Their routine changes after that. They still get up in the early hours of morning and walk down to the pool where no amount of cleaning can get rid of brown leaves covering the surface. Michael still watched Ryan jump in and swim for an hour, but then he dips his feet into water, then his legs and before he knows, he’s diving into the icy pool. It’s heart-stopping and numbing for a second, then Michael shakes his head and pushes forward and stroke after stroke, he parts the fallen leaves with his hands.  
  
  
  
  
Later that day, Ramon stops their time as they go head to head, looking like they’ve just thrown all of his birthdays and past Christmases together. Michael is out of shape and Ryan is fast as hell.  
  
“Dude, you better not start again,” he laughs, pieces of leaf sticking to his forehead. “You suck.”  
  
It should sting, insult him, bother him in any way, but it doesn’t. Michael just grins and shrugs. “I really do.”  
  
On the side of the pool, Ramon is gaping at them, stopwatch in his hand probably long forgotten. “Shit, that was _awesome_! Jesus, fuck. So cool.”  
  
They do a few more lanes just to make his day – or life.  
  
  
  
  
Michael doesn’t know why it’s so easy all of a sudden. Why he struggled on his own and with his family for months without really knowing what to do or change. He hasn’t done anything special this past week and Ryan’s done nothing extraordinary either except for driving him around Florida accident free. But somehow, between then and now, something has clicked, slotted back in place, filled up a gap.  
  
He sits on the couch and Ryan’s breathing against his neck and perhaps it doesn’t need anything special or anything extraordinary, because they’re them and it’s enough.  
  
  
  
  
“I was relieved when you called,” Ryan tells him on their last day at the campsite. They need to head up north again, past Miami and back to Gainesville; Ryan can’t fall back on his training. So they’re sitting on the beach with sodas, leaning back and looking out.  
“It just got too much. Like, I pushed myself so hard and at one point, I pushed too much and London – it didn’t suck, but I wanted it to be better. I got back and I changed training and I think I might be overdoing it in some areas. And everyone was just, nagging and nagging and I got so stressed man.”  
  
“You shouldn’t,” Michael says, but he knows exactly what Ryan means.  
  
“I know,” Ryan agrees and shrugs. “But… if you’re not there to push me, what else am I supposed to do?”  
  
He looks at him, open and honest and genuine and Michael swallows thickly. Looking down between them, he sees Ryan’s fingers barely brushing his. It’s easy to take them and squeeze tight. “I’m gonna be there, okay? I promise. I’m gonna be there.”  
  
Ryan’s eyes are bright and blue. And there’s nothing else.  
  
Michael leans in. Ryan tastes of salt and Mountain Dew.  
  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
He’s leaning against the side of the Jeep. The apocalyptic rainfall has washed all the dirt off of it and it’s now pretty easy for Michael to see that it’s actually neither grey nor black, but the typical Wrangler green. The sun is shining, it’s just warm enough to not need a jacket and he adjusts the sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose. It doesn’t take long for the phone to be picked up at the other end on the line.  
  
“It’s me,” he says instantly.  
  
 _“Oh, thank God,”_ his mother answers. _“I was getting worried; there was something about a hurricane warning on the news.”_  
  
“Sorry. No hurricane, just a lot of rain and wind. But I’m good. I mean, we’re – we’re good.”  
  
 _“I’m glad. So where are you heading now? Herman misses you, you know? And we do too.”_  
  
“I miss you guys, too,” Michael replies and looks over his shoulder. Ryan is just leaving the little shop, arms full of Mountain Dew and the corners of two crisp packets tucked between his teeth. “But – I think I’m staying down here for a bit. Like, in Gainesville. With Ryan.”  
  
There’s a heavy pause at the other end. Michael’s throat feel itchy. Then he hears his mother sigh.  
  
 _“Of course, stay as long as you want,”_ and Michael breathes with relief. _“Say hello to Ryan from me. And tell him thank you.”_  
  
Michael blinks. “Um, okay. I will.”  
  
 _“Oh and Michael?”_  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
 _“I love you. And I’m happy for you.”_  
  
There’s something tickling in the corners of his eyes when Michael hangs up, but he wipes them quickly and looks up to find Ryan smiling at him with raised eyebrows.  
  
“Ready to go?”  
  
Michael gets into the Jeep, reaches for his seat buckle and answers Ryan’s smile with one of his own. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”  
  
  
  
  
Retirement might be turning out differently than Michael had imagined. But he’s pretty glad about that.


End file.
